


Cynics in the Dark

by BeautifulMistake



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Real World, Angst and Humor, Dark Comedy, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Genderbending, Genderfuck, LGBTQ Character, Out of Drag, Rare Pairings, Romance, Romantic Angst, RuPaul's Drag Race References, Standing up, Trans Female Character, Transgender, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulMistake/pseuds/BeautifulMistake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were both too cynical to let it go anywhere. But he made her laugh. And she made him sweat. </p><p>An alternate universe romance fic with some genderfuck elements. Featuring Bianca Del Rio/Roy Haylock as a non-drag comedian and Violet Chachki as a transwoman from a powerful society family in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trill

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird. But I had a dream about this the other night. It won't leave my mind. So I'm writing fic about it. 
> 
> This is going to get porny eventually, but we're not there yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queens featuring this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki

He was on a weird gig when he met her. He'd been hired to MC a big fundraiser gala, some shindig for rich Manhattan liberals to get drunk and take each other's money. Society types weren't his usual crowd at all, but his name had started getting out there at that point, and he guessed those white yuppies liked the optics of themselves being photographed laughing at some slightly downtown Latino comic. Plus the money was good, better than most gigs he was called for, that was certain. So his crowd or not, he rented the tuxedo, checked his teeth were pretty, and put on a show for the ladies who lunched and the fat cats who bought the martinis.

He worked hard for this one, toning down his usual rapid-fire insult shtick, but not so much he didn't sound like the guy they'd hired. He actually did research, first time he'd had to do that in a while. Figuring out what their bag was let him know just the right way to skewer it without taking things too far. Roy was no dummy, so he wasn't about to sound like one. Folks like that liked to think of themselves as able to take a few lumps, but take it too far, and they'd turn on you in the time it took to flip the nickel to the help. It was a fine line to walk, but he nailed it, poking fun where he thought they wouldn't mind, saving most of his real zingers for their Republican opponents, who they were clearly superior to because they hired their illegals to work indoors too. He was getting real feedback, good-sized laughs even from stiffs likes these, and but more and more as the night went on, he found himself holding out for the sound of one laugh in particular. 

It was very distinctive, difficult for him to describe. He didn't catch it often, usually only when he pushed his luck a bit and threw something out with real teeth. But he found himself starting to listen for it, a sort of high, light trilling almost like the song of a bird. Kind of weird, kind of pretty. In normal circumstances it was the sort he might have made fun of, but the fact that he was able to pull it out so rarely made him hang on it. He found himself starting to play to it, work harder for it, and every time that weird little bird laugh rang out, he counted it as a victory.

At the end of the night, when the monkey suit was off and the monkey had danced his last, he dutifully reported to the front office for the other half of his check. But instead of the frowning, pantsuited lipstick lesbian who hired him, there was another girl, dark hair, flashy dress, sitting on the desk there waiting for him. He had a vague memory of spotting her in the crowd, which meant she was a guest there, some relation or arm candy or paid escort to the political luminaries. And since somebody's girl for the night probably wouldn't be paying him, he wagered she was hooked up but good. 

Hot girl, at least by some standards. Her face was beat for the gods, in the way some girls used it by the trowelful to make it look like they weren't wearing anything at all. It would have fooled most dudes, but with his line of work he'd learned to clock it even in this light. Amid her glittery bath towel of a cocktail dress, she was all long, gawky limbs and pale skin, jutting with sharp bones. Not his type, he liked a little more meat on a girl, but something about her all the same. Like a model from the 90s or a rock star, back when they were all on heroin. 

Leaving behind the shtick for a minute, he accepted the check mildly. "Thank you. Enjoy the show?" he asked, more out of politeness than anything.

Those exquisitely painted lips quirked. "Not as much as I expected. I thought you were really going to let us have it."

Roy didn't miss a beat. "Well, in that case, honey, your dress is ugly." 

And there it was, that birdsong laugh.


	2. Mascara Tracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going try to fill the story from here on out with Drag Race references. Let's see if you catch 'em.
> 
> Queens featured in this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki

The GM at Prisca was an old friend of Roy's, so he could hit the guy up when he needed a little cash between gigs. He'd been working pretty regularly these days, but not too many people hit the clubs on a Wednesday night, and when some big spender rented the place out, Jay counted it as a favor to have somebody around who could tie a tie straight and wasn't going to show up stoned. So a few months later, Roy put on his presentable face again for the second time in recent memory he'd be swimming with the whales. Only this time they were paying him to keep his remarks to himself. 

A party like this, it was more like cater waiting anyway, so as long as he kept the drinks coming and the trays level, he could get away with a pasted smile on his face. He settled for gathering material for a routine he was working on in his head, identifying the Six Kinds of Rich White People you always saw at these parties. He was just getting into the idea of Brings Every Conversation Back to the Health of Either His Portfolio or His Prostate Guy, when Jay asked him to go grab another case of champagne because the busboy was puking up tabs of X in the alleyway. 

He decided to be grateful for the temporary escape. He ducked behind the bar and made his way to the back room, but as he drew close, it sounded like there was somebody in there already, and he could have sworn they were crying.

He pushed into the storage room to see a lanky figure slumped on the table, swathed in expensive clothes and snot. Jesus Christ. It was the girl from the gala, all white skin and sharp angles, knock knees sticking through the slashed skirt of her gown, cowl neckline practically down to her navel, and red soles plain on her six-inch heels. He had a background in costume design and construction, so one look told him it cost a lot to look that cheap. But that beat face was a hot mess now, as big wet tracks of liner and mascara came streaking down her cheeks.

Not a whole lot threw Roy, but for some reason a girl who'd looked fit to stomp the world beneath her stiletto sobbing in a closet was enough. "Oh, hey, sorry-- are you okay? Is there, you know, anything I can do?"

She was sniffling and downcast, but her response was lightning-quick. "Yeah, can you let me get caught sucking your dick? It'd really piss my father off if he thought I stormed off to fuck the help." 

It was the last goddamn thing he'd expected to hear. Unable to help himself, he burst out laughing. "I could, but what's in it for me?" 

He caught himself quickly, suddenly afraid he'd made it worse, but instead it seemed to help her pull herself together. She wiped her eyes, smearing her makeup further, and turned to actually look at him.

"I remember you. You were the MC at the fundraiser. What are you doing here?"

"Eh, I just do the comedy thing for cash. My real passion is waiting tables." Mess as she was, she at least had the good graces to roll her eyes at herself. He grabbed one of the spare white table napkins and held it out to her. "No offense, but you look like hell." 

She sank both hands into her wild dark hair and bent down her neck. "I am hell."

He snorted. "Mind if I asked what happened?"

She tossed her head back, and suddenly his eye was drawn to the white expanse of sternum above the neckline of her dress. Christ, she was a bony thing, with hardly a handful to either side, but the low cowl fell open just where the curves began to swell. Subtly sexy, like a high-fashion spread. At least it would have been without all the snot. 

At last she grabbed the napkin and dabbed her eyes and nose, making a face at the paint that wiped away. "My family. That's what happened. And... everyone."

He leaned against the edge of the table beside her. "Ah, people. Fuck 'em." 

"Well, damn, why didn't I think of that?"

"Looking at you, I'd think that'd be your first thought." Again he briefly wondered if he was being an asshole, jabbing at her while she was down like that, but it made her outright laughed, and hearing that bizarre trilling once again gave him an unexpected thrill. "Look, honey... some people are just assholes. Maybe even most people. Nothing you can do about that, so it ain't your fault if they act like it." 

"Really? That's all you got for me? Some help." 

"Hey, if I was trying to help you, I'd tell you all the places you got snot on yourself." She rolled her eyes epically, but she seemed to be steadier now. She patted around for her handbag, a tiny little thing that probably cost as much as his apartment, then tottered back onto her enormous heels. 

"Well, thanks. Better go put my face back on. Nobody will recognize me without it." He had to look up at her as she stood. God, even besides them, she was tall. Amazonian even. 

Watching her collect herself, he felt strange. Usually he didn't have much feeling for the rich and beautiful besides contempt. But he found himself stopping her before she walked out. 

"Actually, wait a second." He dug around in his pocket for one of his cards. Fortunately he'd remembered to grab them before he left the apartment. "You ever need something, call a hateful bitch like me. Even if it's for a laugh."

She studied the card. "Haylock. I thought you were Spanish."

He shrugged. "That way the cops don't find me. But you can call me Roy." 

She lifted her smeary eyes back to him. "I'm Violet."


	3. Dark Bars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Violet hang out for the first time. Getting to know her, he finds for a lot of reasons she's sticking in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! The relationship begins, as does the exploration of the transgender themes.
> 
> Queens featured in this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki

The first time he heard it that night, he thought he imagined it. He was doing a set at one of his regular club gigs downtown, and he knew his head hadn't been as in the game as much as usual. He'd been thinking about her since that night working the party, for no reason he could name, so when he first thought he heard her weird bird voice among the laughter out in the dark of the audience, he kicked himself for being ridiculous. But when he heard it a second time, a laugh like nobody else's, his stomach fluttered as he realized. Shit. She was here. 

He shifted from absurdly pleased at the notion-- had she gone out of her way to look up when he'd be performing again? --to suddenly thrown. He was too much of a professional to let it show in his performance, but in his head it brought up all kinds of rookie shit, like second-guessing his whole goddamn routine in the middle of things; she'd probably dig the social media stuff, but the race jokes would be a bridge too far. 

Inwardly he side-eyed himself. Since when did he care that somebody didn't like his material? Since when was he ever, when he engaged the audience in the act, torn between hoping not to see somebody and hoping to catch a glimpse?

Still, he couldn't stop tracking her reaction. She wasn't consistent, so every time she dropped out he was sure he lost her. Sure enough, she didn't laugh through much of the racial stuff-- lot of white girls didn't know how --but she didn't walk out, either, because eventually he'd hear her again. 

When the set was over, he packed up his shit in record time in hopes that he'd catch her, surprised at his own eagerness. Feeling absurdly high school about the whole thing, he threaded his way through the lobby, trying not to make it too obvious he was looking.

Shit. He should have known. Of course he wouldn't have to look hard. Her height and her heels stuck her way above the crowd, plus she had a knack for finding just the right light. Even in the dark club, of course he'd just have to look for the one bare bulb in the place that would emphasize her cheekbones. 

"Excuse me, miss, but the Narc Anon meeting's down the block." 

She turned her eyes to him but not her body. "You know you're pretty fucking racist."

"You'd know, white girl." Christ, he was grinning like an idiot. "What are you doing here?"

"Wanted to see what you did when you were off the leash. Guess that was it."

"Come on, I heard you laughing, bitch." 

She eyed him. "You heard me?" 

He felt self-conscious suddenly, but tried to play it off. "You have kind of a-- distinctive laugh."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Like goddamned Woody the Woodpecker." 

He jumped to reassure her, a little too quickly. "Nah, it's nice!" He walked it back a little. "I mean, give me anything but those hipsters who think nodding shows that you thought something was funny."

She shifted against the wall she was leaning on to face him. "Well, lucky for you I'm desperately avoiding going home." 

Okay, between that and her crying in the closet at Prisca, now he was curious. What the hell, he thought. "Well, long as you got nowhere to be... you want to get a drink?"

She eyed him a moment, and he half-expected she was going to laugh in his face. But at last she tossed him a grin. "My sponsor will kill me. Let's go."

They hit up a different dark bar just a few blocks away. Violet suggested it; he was amused to find she already seemed to know the area, like she was a regular. He laughed to himself; of course rich bitch liked to slum it. As they settled in and ordered, Roy considered what to say to her. He could tell this girl had a hell of a story, and he had to admit he was curious about it. He had a way of getting people talking; he prided himself on being able to chat with anybody, and judgmental as he was, he had a knack for the kind of ribbing that put people at ease. But It turned out he didn't have to bother. Miz Violet Dardo had come out ready to put on a show, and girl didn't just have a telenovela; hers was a nighttime soap written by a sexual sadist. 

The poor-little-rich-girl stuff was par for the course, involving a distant, pilled-out mother and a rich corporate daddy who may or may not murder brown hookers in his spare time. But Violet herself was trans, as it turned out, which explained her ridiculous height. She'd been stone cold certain since she was six years old, and had waged a full-on war with her parents until they ponied up for the transition. That deal might have been a mess in any old family, but for the Dardos there was some crazy rich-people shit going on, too-- battling for control of inheritances, child advocate attorneys, abusing loopholes in trust fund terms. Threats were made on both sides of the aisle, ranging from reeducation camps to good old fashioned blackmail. But in the end, Violet got what she wanted, a complete physical overhaul into the woman she was meant to be. All for the low, low price of a move to Manhattan where no one knew them, an NDA with her own goddamn parents, and the constant ambient hostility of everyone involved. 

Roy listened, mostly without comment. He wasn't easily rattled, and had certainly heard some sick stories in his time, but something about the cold, corporatized way it had all gone down made his skin crawl. He was no stranger to family strife, but it was supposed to be yelling and crying, not legal actions and hush money. 

"Jesus," he said when she was through. "And here I thought my creepy uncle fucked me up."

"Oh, I got three of those. Except now I'm safe because they're all disgusted by me." 

"Well, I'm glad the situation's improved."

"I guess. You'd think if none of them could stand to look at me, I'd get a lot less shit."

"If it's that bad, why do you stick around?"

"Because they'll get to keep my trust fund if I leave."

He stared at her with his best _bitch, please._ But she stared back, unabashedly. "It's eleven point three million. You'd stay too."

He whistled. "Yeah, for that much, Daddy can saddle me up and ride me around the room. In fact, let me know if there are any job openings." She trill-laughed at that, which made him bolder. "Better rich and miserable than poor and miserable. Baby likes her shoes, I see."

"And her HRT." 

"Fair. A body like that can't come cheap."

"Lamborghinis never do."

He snorted. "That good, huh?"

"I wasn't playing around." 

"Must not have been, to get that much done under the hood. How's it drive?"

She glared at him. "Bitch, it's fucking perfect."

He cocked an eyebrow. "According to whom?"

"Ask around." She downed her cocktail, set aside the glass, and signaled for another all without breaking eye contact. "So are you joking to cover that you're freaked out?"

That was more direct than he expected. Freaked out wasn't the word for it. Sure, it was fucked up, her multi-million-dollar psychodrama. But most of all, it was sad, achingly sad in a way he didn't usually like to think about; now that she finally felt like a human being, everyone who really knew her saw her as a monster. Cold heartless bastards like him didn't like to dwell on that sort of thing. But he was pretty damn sure she didn't want his pity. 

True to form, though, he didn't need more than a moment to come back. "I always lead with the asshole thing. I like folks to know what they're in for upfront."

Her lips quirked. "Me too. If they're going to be scared off, better get it out of the way quick." Her tone was joking, but even to him the words were all too real.

They chatted a bit longer after that, of lighter things than defense mechanisms and the state of her messed-up life. Eventually her phone buzzed, apparently with a text, and after checking it she stretched and began collecting her things. 

"Curfew calling?" he asked.

"Yeah, my P.O. gets on my ass if I'm out too late." She stood to go, then looked back at him over her shoulder. "Thanks for all the laughs." 

He grinned. "Least I could do. You paid for the drinks." 

Roy went home that night with their conversation running through his mind. And when he jerked himself before he fell asleep and couldn't quite get there, calling up the memory of that cowl neckline skimming over her breasts made him splatter all over his stomach.


	4. Just Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more they hang out, the more Roy can't stop thinking about Violet. He really shouldn't have talked to Shane about it, because now he's never going to let it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queens featured in this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki, Courtney Act

After that, they became something like friends. Violet had been the one to make it happen, texting him on a regular basis and meeting his barbs as good as she got. Sometimes she'd come to his shows and they'd hang out after, or sometimes they'd just pick someplace to meet for a few hours. Beneath the onslaught of coarse jokes thrown back and forth, Roy found out she wasn't just fierce, she was also fascinating. 

She was terrifyingly smart, to begin with. The enormity of her reference pools astounded him, which coming from a comedian was no small achievement, ranging from Enlightenment philosophical theory to children's cartoons to Ancient Greek drama to trashy reality TV. She knew film, TV, art, and literature extensively, turning him on to Junot Diaz and Ava duVerny. And she had thoughts about everything, always interrogating his positions and challenging him to defend them. She could target intellectual laziness like a laser, and fired on it with the same intensity.

"I don't know. I don't think about it that much."

"That's because you've never had a problem with your gender."

"I don't mean it like that. I'm not constantly worrying about swinging my dick around to prove anything. I just do whatever I'm going to do anyway."

"Well, to you, gender's incidental."

"Incidental? I think most people are pretty attached to theirs. God knows they get pissed enough if you treat them like the wrong one."

"Only because it's always been that way."

"Really? I wouldn't think you'd believe that."

"Why not?" 

"Nobody gets that much bodywork done unless they care what they're driving."

"Yeah, I care, and some people care. Not everyone. If you have a strong sense of your gender, you're cis if it matches, you're trans if it's not. But plenty of people are just cis by default, and they don't see what's worth fighting about. It's why so many people don't get it. They don't know what it feels like when it really matters."

Roy didn't like to talk about himself, so he would turn the conversation back to her. Fortunately she had plenty to say, most of it shockingly personal. He knew the type, based on the way she'd told him her whole horror story the first time they hung out. People like her couldn't tell much to anyone they knew too closely, so they unloaded on short acquaintance.

"You're kidding. Both of them?"

"Swear to God. I got almost completely ignored. Most disappointing threesome ever."

"Rude. I knew those macho athletic types were compensating for something."

"I should have known something was up when they were so into the idea. But I did them a favor giving them the excuse. You'd think they could at least throw me a bone for that."

"Sounds like the bones were otherwise engaged. At least you got a show."

"True. I'd have put it on the Internet if I'd been able to reach my phone."

"Ah, then at least you could have made a little money for your trouble."

Roy had always prided himself on not letting other people impress him, but there was always a certain harsh awareness of the weird gulf between them he just couldn't seem to shake. Here he was, some motor mouthed, small-time Spic comedian, hanging out with a girl whose family could buy and sell small countries, who, by the way, just happened to look like a supermodel. It was distracting, to say the least. He gave no sign of course, Roy had a hell of a poker face, but he didn't like that he needed it this bad. 

He made it worse when he mentioned it to Shane, a buddy of his also working the club circuit. An Australian transplant and the world's oldest living twink, Shane did a drag show where he prided himself on making a convincing enough woman that straight guys were, if not fooled, at least ultimately indifferent. He used some name he claimed was a pun but didn't sound that way to Roy; apparently it made more sense in an Australian accent.

He never meant to bring it up. But then Shane called him up one night to go drinking, with one of his usual last-minute invites.

"Why do I always get the feeling I wasn't your first call?"

"Bitch, you weren't even my second call. But it's not like you have anything better to do."

"Well, believe it or not, I got plans." 

"Yeah? A date?"

"We're just friends." He kicked himself the minute the words were out of his mouth. Nobody said "we're just friends" about somebody they wanted to be just friends with. 

And of course, Shane was on him like a cheap suit. "Oh, yeah? Is she hot?" 

"Why, you jealous?"

"Do you like her?"

"Better than you right now. Like I said, we're friends." 

"Since when does an asshole like you have friends?"

"Since I got sick of you calling when your trade cancels."

"Damn, she must be something. What's she like?"

He paused. "Complicated," he said at last. He gave Shane the quick version, knowing he would eat up the details if they got too lurid. "You ever heard of the Dardos?"

"Nah, but I can imagine the type. You don't get into my line of work without meeting a rich girl walking on the wild side now and then."

For some reason he bristled a little at the characterization, even though it was the sort of crack he might have made himself. "It's not like that, don't be a prick. This girl fucks, like, polo players and Lacoste models, she doesn't need my dick." 

"So she hangs around for your company." 

"Either that or she wants me to clean her pool."

"Hey, in that case, you should go for it. With these rich white ladies, you'd probably get laid after all."

"I always wanted my life to be more like a porno. Well, she does like to piss off her daddy, so I guess I got a shot."

He was kidding, but as was often his way, the kidding deflected from the truth. And the truth was that he was thinking about her a lot lately, to the point that he was getting annoyed at himself. He wasn't usually the type to lead with the crotch. Still, that long lean supermodel body was getting to him, enough that she was featuring in his midnight movie more often than not, sometimes even in the middle of going about his day. A jerk-off fantasy was one thing, but it was quite another when it was actually taking up time in his life. 

It had to be desperation getting to him somehow. It had been a while, after all. His career was starting to ramp up finally, and the gigs had been his first priority. There just hadn't been that much thought for it in the midst of getting his comedy on the map.

But contrary to Shane's needling, he wasn't feeling the fantasy. While he seriously doubted she'd never banged anyone for rebellion's sake, he was equally dubious that was her plan for him. She did talk about sex a lot, though he was too savvy to mistake that for any kind of invitation. It was all of a piece with the rest of the personal stuff, things she wasn't able to speak frankly of to anyone else in her life. Still, the sheer volume of it made him suspect she found him safe and non-threatening, a good friend she trusted to listen. 

And of course Roy well knew that meant he was the last guy she'd ever want to fuck.


	5. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet drops a bombshell that changes things for Roy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bringing in Pearl as a character too now! That brings the alum total up to 4, with more to come.
> 
> Queens featured in this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki, Pearl Liaison

But even all that wasn't enough to make it weird. That didn't happen until considerably later, when Violet dropped a bomb he didn't see coming. She'd been texting all night, something he didn't usually mind, except she was distracted from her end of the conversation. When she missed the third joke in a row, he started to get annoyed. "Hey, I'm throwing out my best material here. You at least ought to get your drink money's worth. Is your parole officer that needy?"

"My mom's busy tonight." She set aside her phone with studied casualness. "Actually it's my boyfriend." 

Why did his guts go cold at that? He sipped at his drink to affect the ease he should have felt. "Hold up. Your boyfriend? Since when does a whore like you have a boyfriend?"

"Uh, since always?" Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He worked to neutralize his expression. "Because it's the first I'm hearing about it."

"So? Should you have?"

"I don't know, because that's the sort of thing friends talk about it?"

"How would I know? I've never had any."

"Well, forgive me, I'm guess I'm surprised. From the stories you tell, I figured you were blowing homeless men outside the Lincoln Tunnel." 

"Everybody's got a past."

"Oh, so you gave all that up for this one?"

"Yeah, actually." She eyed him in that piercing way of hers. "I wouldn't have let you call me whore so many times if I thought you believed it."

"Guess I got confused by all those hookups, threesomes, and revenge fucks you mentioned." Joke thus delivered, he paused awkwardly, unsure of what to say next. "So...who is he?"

"Matt. That is, Matthew James Lent."

"That's a pretty preppy name for somebody you're dating."

"He's a pretty preppy guy."

He stared, genuinely surprised. "Really?"

Watching the light play off of the wine in her glass, she told him the story of how they met, at one of her parents' numerous parties. She'd been having a miserable time, and normally wouldn't have given a second look to a guy that looked that straitlaced, but he'd struck up a conversation with her, and he'd been so cool and charming she couldn't write him off. When she was least expecting it, he made her laugh. 

It did not escape him that it was basically the same way Roy had met her. "Well, he must be a fucking hero if he got you to settle."

"He is." Her voice was firm, with no trace of irony. "Even my parents like him."

Now that was a surprise. He raised an eyebrow. "And that didn't make you run screaming in the opposite direction?"

She raked her hair back with one hand, then pushed it in front of her face. "I thought it would. I always wanted to get as far away from that kind of guy as possible. I mean, he's so... fucking normal."

"What the hell do you talk about then?"

"Real stuff. He's so real. And smart, and kind, and hot, and..." She trailed off, biting her lip as if embarrassed. "Even if he is a square." 

Roy kept his tone wry. "But, Daddy, I love him?"

"Except I'm not calling you Daddy."

"Wow. There goes all your hipster cried right there."

"Turns out I'm a poser after all." She tilted her head just so to catch the light, as if she planned it that way. Roy marveled; bitch could be an honest-to-God model.

He caught himself staring, and cast about for a joke to hide his distraction. "Don't tell him that. He probably thinks dating a trans girl makes him cool."

"He might. If he knew."

At that, Roy stopped short. "Wait. He doesn't know?"

"Nobody knows. Not in my real life." 

"Because of the NDA?"

She looked up sharply, then quickly shook her head. "That's not what that's about. I mean, sure, they don't like me talking about it, but... no."

His eyes narrowed. "Then why?"

At that she looked away, as if unable to look him in the eye. "It just... never came up."

"You mean you never told him?"

She shrugged, her shoulders already not far below her ears. "I don't know what he would think." She turned her eyes back to him warily. "You gonna lecture me?"

He looked down. "Hey, none of my business."

"But you got an opinion. When do you not have an opinion?"

He swirled the remains of his drink in the glass. "Just wondering if he's so amazing, why do you think he'll have a problem?"

"Because he's not a freak."

"Unlike the rest of us? Gee, thanks."

"No, I mean... he's a regular person. He fits in places. Gets along with people. He doesn't have to deal with weirdos if he doesn't want to. He could just as easily find some girl who... doesn't have my bullshit going on."

"And you think you might lose him?"

"I don't know. It's just he's the only thing in my life that works." She seemed to draw in on herself in a way that made Roy feel strange. Her affect was usually so bulletproof; she hadn't even seemed this vulnerable when she was sobbing in the back room at Prisca. "You think that's fucked."

He shook his head and shrugged, uncomfortable for more reason than one. "It's your life, honey. I just know these things have a way of coming out."

"Don't have to fucking tell me that. But... he only sees the best parts of me. I can't mess that up."

They parted for the evening not long after. But instead of heading home, Roy wandered through the empty streets, trying to get his head together. 

He breathed deep to relax the tightness in the pit of his stomach. Was he really this worked up? Why would it matter to him one way or the other if she had a boyfriend? Up to this point, he'd been assuming she'd been banging her way through all manner of society playboys, dirty hipsters, and busted drags queens up to this point. Why would the idea that she was actually with just one guy hit him that much harder?

Yeah, she was featuring in his midnight movie often enough, that was becoming a thing. He couldn't pretend there wasn't an attraction. But what was he expecting? That she'd ever date him? He wasn't exactly given to flights of insanity like that. If he was totally honest, there was some vague wondering if they might hook up sometime, even establish something like a fuckbuddy situation. But of course even that was dreaming. She wasn't even into him as an act of rebellion, even before she'd mentioned this, of all things, socially acceptable boyfriend.

That she was afraid to tell him she was trans was a revelation he never would have predicted. She seemed so proud and secure in it, fiercely certain in her pursuit of living as her gender. He'd never have imagined keeping it from any guy. But the way she talked about him made it clear how strongly she felt. He'd never heard her talk that way about anyone, much less somebody she was fucking. If nothing else, it spoke to the lengths she'd go to keep him in her life. And that certainly, definitely, beyond a doubt cleared up exactly Roy's place in her world.

This was for the best, he decided. He knew her life was messy, but this wasn't the kind of mess he had in mind. He never let that spill into his own order of things. And he was getting too wrapped up in this stupid crush, or whatever the hell it was. He needed a good strong signal to get the fuck over himself. Roy never let things get out of hand with emotions that never led anywhere good, and being into a girl who wasn't giving him a second look definitely qualified. 

He didn't need that kind of mess.


	6. The Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy's attraction to Violet has become impossible to ignore. He does his best to keep it hidden, but when she invites him to a party with her alt friends, he realizes just how difficult a position his feelings have put him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real in this, the longest chapter yet! Still trying to include as many Drag Racers and references to the show that I can. See if you can catch them all, including which Drag Racers are alluded to but not named!
> 
> This chapter released in celebration of Hurricane Bianca, the new independent film that just came out with Bianca in the starring role. :-)
> 
> Queens featured in this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki, Raja Gemini

Like a little bitch, he couldn't resist typing the dude's pretentious name into Google to see what was going on there. As it turned out, Matthew James Lent was a successful financial advisor and involved in all kinds of philanthropy, not to mention handsome enough for the cover of GQ. Exactly the sort of guy who belonged with a trust fund baby who looked like a fashion model. No wonder even her family was tonguing the guy's taint.

The problem, of course, was not Matthew James whoever-he-was. The problem was that apparently Roy had lost his mind a little bit and was no longer distinguishing between a jerk-off fantasy and the considerably less gentle touch of reality. As usual, sex, or the lack thereof, fucked everything up. He liked Violet for her conversation, damn it, her wit and the piercing blade of her intellect. But all his interactions with her were clouded by that intense attraction, pervading like a fog. He could still smooth it over with the old poker face, thank Christ, faking his way to normalcy. But its unresolved, strangled-off nature made it impossible to move past, and he despised the way it nagged at him every moment with her. He had to sack up and get his head back on straight.

So Roy dealt with it by not dealing with it. He had shit to do, God damn it, so he kept his focus on doing it, booking gigs, writing material, occasionally remembering to get some nutrition that wasn't in the form of coffee or vodka. Deliberately, consciously, he did not call Violet. He didn't want to act any different towards her in general, because that might have clued her in that something was off. But he wasn't going to seek her out for a while, he decided, at least until he chilled out. She was already taking up a ton his mental real estate; she could crash in that house every now and again, but it wasn't going to help to be inviting her in. So of course, the first time she called him, it was all he could do to wait to answer on the third ring. 

"What are you doing next Saturday night?" she asked.

"Oh, same thing as always, catfishing Lena Headey."

She didn't laugh, nor come back with a joke of her own. "You don't have a gig, do you?"

"No, not that week. Why?"

"I want you to come to a party with me."

Her tone was studiously casual, and even a week before he might have been able to be chill. But immediately his nerves went humming, at once all eager anticipation and frank terror of the idea of going somewhere as her plus one. Yet again the intensity of it shocked him. The signals were clear-- he completely, absolutely, beyond a doubt should not go. 

He couldn't tell her that, of course. But he should come up with an excuse, tell her he hated pounding baselines, that he had an allergy to hipsters, that his doctor told him no more X until his blood work came back. But when he opened his mouth, his brain's reasoning couldn't be heard over the heedless screaming of his gut.

"Yeah, sure."

By the time that Saturday rolled around, he'd managed to only spend half of every moment obsessing over the night. He dressed up a little for it, nothing fancy, but the costume designer in him knew there was probably a dress code. Plus she'd put it on to bring the house down, and she'd expect him not to embarrass her. When they met under the street lamps at the entrance to the subway, he had a hooker crack ready to go, but at the sight of her the words died in his throat. For once she'd abstained from the high-end couture, but she had a way of making even thrift store finds sing. From the waist up, she was all lady, in a fifties-style sweetheart neckline with victory rolls in her hair. From the waist down, all tramp, in grandma's good going-out panties, with legs that went all the way up to her asshole. 

When they arrived, they had to turn down a back alley and descend two flights of particularly sketchy looking stairs before they found their way inside. It wasn't exactly his scene, but he'd been to a warehouse party or two. This one radiated an even higher pretension level than most; besides the standard low, pastel lighting pulsing in time to electronica and house, there were crash booths set up around the perimeter, almost like Japanese tea tables. Party goers gathered around them for various purposes, like a hookah, a bowl of tabs, or even a conversation, if you could make yourself heard when your teeth were threatening to vibrate out of your head. 

Violet's friends were a bizarre assortment of out-there artists, hipsters, and derelicts of a panoply of gender expressions, which meant they were basically exactly as he'd expected. The acerbic beanpole theater punk with abs that would have made a stripper jealous. A taped-back glamorpuss under paint an inch thick. A goth scene kid wearing Tim Burton stripes and freaky pale contact lenses. They were headed up by a terminally cool creature called Raja, the ringleader and arbiter of them, tall, dark, and good-looking in an androgynous way, dressed to the nines in a mixture of men and women's clothing. He was curled up in a booth like a cat, but when he noticed Violet approach he extended long, giraffe-like limbs to greet her. 

"There you are, hunty," he said in a melodious purr. "You never come out anymore."

"You should invite me out to more places like this. It's dark enough nobody can see how old you are."

Raja's lips quirked. "It's all for you, girl. That way nobody can clock the way you paint." His gaze slid over to Roy, who stood a half-step behind her with his hands in his pockets. "Did you bring a friend? Since when do you bring anybody?"

As they all turned back to look at him, he came forward and held out his hand. "Friend's a bit strong. She paid me to be here."

Delicately Raja grasped it. "Well, you wouldn't be the first time somebody invited their trade along. Are you expensive?"

"Why do you think she usually shows up alone?" 

Raja barked a laugh and grinned with eyes heavy-lidded, either amused or trying to get Roy to slip off to the men's room with him. Either way, Roy knew he was in. "I like this one," Raja murmured. "He's funny."

The master having spoken, the laugh was taken up by the rest of the table. Violet tossed her head back as she joined in, and brushed her hand over his. It was friendly, innocent enough, but they'd touched very little up to this point, so it sent a jolt of electricity through him like the thirsty little bitch he'd become. 

The conversation from there ranged through a number of topics, from an art opening that he hadn't seen but was apparently in the medium of human hair and the bones of small animals, to bitching about how they hated traveling all the way to Brooklyn for the most tragically hip events. Roy kept up well enough, by injecting a well-aimed crack now and then, but most of his attention was set on Violet. It wasn't anything obvious, but she was different now, something in her aspect or behavior that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe because she was sitting beside him, so close in the cramped booth. Maybe it was how she would look over her shoulder at him every time she laughed. But the vibe was different somehow, at once inscrutable yet weirdly intimate, and when she went so far as to lean into him with one arm draped over his back, it had his head practically swimming while his nerves slowly caught on fire.

After a while the conversation waned a little, with some of the party splitting off into other groups, to smoke, to schmooze, to stumble out into the dance floor. Violet was still leaning into him, her presence a soft torture at his back. Roy contemplated stepping out the men's room, just for an excuse to break the contact, when the song shifted and Violet rose out of her seat. He thought he'd take the chance to excuse himself, find a moment of quiet somewhere, when suddenly she seized his wrist and pulled him out of the booth after her. 

He stared up at her stupidly, caught off guard. "What?"

She didn't turn back. "Come on. I want to dance, and Raja's got two left feet and vertigo."

He shouldn't have done it. He knew, he _knew_ he shouldn't have done it. Just like he shouldn't have done the whole damn evening. But he became momentarily lost in the sight of her drawing him by the hand after her, framed against the backdrop of that tight ass in her hot pants. Brushing past the pack of club kids rolling through the dance floor on E brought him back to reality, and he almost spoke up then. But in the thick of it all, the colored lights so low and the music so pounding, the moment became unreal and all the consequences with it. Suddenly she turned to face him; his arms moved around her unbidden, and there was nothing left but her. 

Roy wasn't a dancer, really, but it turned out neither was Violet, and dancing was not what she had in mind. She writhed against him like a coiled snake, arms slithering around his neck, lean firm body sliding along his. Roy felt as if he'd stepped outside himself, unable to believe the whippet-hard reality of her-- carved hips, snatched waist, the feel of those impossible lines beneath his hands. He'd been cruising at half-mast most of the night, thirsty bitch that he'd become, but just the brush of his fingertips over the nubs of her spine sent him gusting into full sail. 

He was so caught up that he hardly noticed what was so intent on making its presence known. But suddenly Violet spun again, bony back to bone in front, and the sudden contact sent a jolt of lightning down the mainmast in the middle of the storm. 

_Shit._ The shock of it was enough to shake him the fuck out of it. There was no way she didn't notice; she was plastered all up on him and there was nowhere for it to hide. Panic shot through him, about how she would react, if he'd have to explain it, why was he here, why was she doing this, how the hell had it gotten to this point? And in that moment, losing his shit over the brush of a boner, the absurdity of it exploded through him. Here he was in the middle of this little show she was putting on, at the table, on the dance floor, in this whole dark little alternate universe, away from the trust fund and the GQ boyfriend, impressing her friends with her spic comedian. And here he was, feeling the fantasy of being her bitch.

Finally the spell was broken. Roy cast her arms off of him and took a step back. She froze before him, gangly limbs quivering in unnatural holds. Breath catching, he looked up at her, expression was unreadable with the lights behind her, a featureless void robbed of her power to transfix.

He barely heard her over the din. "What?" 

He found his voice, and himself, with effort. "You know something? I should take off. I have to wax my cat." He staggered back until his knees straightened. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he wove around the writhing trippers until he cleared the dance floor and made it back into the blessed darkness. Faintly he heard Violet's voice behind him, but he did not turn. 

"Roy? Roy, wait!"

Burning in all possible ways, he strode out the back door and up the sketchy stairways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you took a guess and would like the answer, the other queens referenced as hanging out with Raja are Alaska, Miss Fame, and Sharon Needles. :-)


	7. Not Pretending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy calls Violet on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up cutting a longer chapter in half JUST TO POST SOMETHING, GODDAMN IT.

The air outside was cooler than the oppressive party environment. His head grew clearer almost immediately, and with it his anger sharpened. He heard her heels clattering against the asphalt as she ran down the alleyway after him.

"Roy! What's going on? What's wrong?"

The inanity of her question was enough to stop him in his tracks. Finally he turned on her, cocking his head in disbelief. "Really, queen? Are you kidding me?" They stared at each other a beat, until he couldn't take it anymore. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play me! Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Roy threw his arms wide. "This! Roping me into your little performance in front of those hipster assholes!"

"What performance!?"

"The performance where you pretend you're an impoverished bohemian creative like the rest of them, so they won't peg you for the privileged brat you are."

"I'm not pretending anything!"

"Oh, yeah? Do any of them know?"

"Go to hell!"

"I didn't think so. I noticed you ditched the rich girl drag. And dragged me here, instead of your square GQ boyfriend. Let me guess. I make a better accessory in front of your alt friends. What am I, your fucking beard?"

Her lips curled back, wounded. "Is that what you think?"

"Why else would you bring me? You think you can lead me around just because you know I--"

He snapped off his sentence as soon as he caught himself, but she was on him like a hawk. "Because what?"

"Because nothing!"

"Now who's playing?"

He breathed out hard through his teeth. "All right, fine. So my dick is dumber than the rest of me. I guess you have to see it. Pretending just makes me look like a bigger jackass than I already do."

"Pretending what?"

"Come on."

"Say it, Roy! Pretending what?"

He had to tear the words out of him like pulling out a knife. "Like... like I'm not into it. Into you. You know I got it bad enough to want to pretend for a few hours like I have a shot."

"What are you saying?"

"Cut the crap, honey. You have to know by now I... I can't get you out of my mind. Believe me, I've tried. I got bigger problems than your skinny ass, but... I can't shake you. So yeah, for a minute, I was dumb enough to play. But I'm done now. I'm done."

Her expression was unreadable. "Roy--"

"Nope!" He shook his head, as if it would shake lose the thoughts.

"You're not listening to me!"

"Not today, Satan. Not today." He turned to go, but she stomped on after.

"I'm not screwing with you!"

He forced himself not to look back. "No kidding. That's the problem, isn't it?"

She grabbed hold of him and forcibly spun him, so that he was staring into her wide eyes, glistening with the beginnings of tears. "Fuck you, Roy," she snarled, and her lips were on his.

Her whole body, impossibly long and lean, pressed in as she kissed him. He reacted by pure instinct before he even knew what was happening, hands finding the razor edges of her jawline to pull her in close. It was a long kiss, hungry, wanting, blotting out the wisps of words and thoughts, until through the electricity of it he remembered himself.

Abruptly Roy broke the contact and stepped back. He stared at her for a long moment, waiting for her to run, to say something. He could still taste the clay of her lipstick as her breath came in jags through parted lips. She said nothing, only stared back at him, but there was every meaning in the world in her eyes.

It was on.


	8. Fucking Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Violet can't hold back any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told ya it'd get here eventually. :-D
> 
> Queens in this chapter: Bianca del Rio, Violet Chachki

In two strides he reached her again, sweeping her up and bending her back. Her mouth opened against his, and her hands roved over him, sliding beneath his shirt and trailing through his hair. He could hardly believe the shape of her in his arms, her impossible body, whippet-hard, carved as if from marble, snatched to perfection by the tightlaced corset. It was insane that it was happening, that he was here, that he was on her and she on him, the feel and the taste of her, after all that ridiculous dreaming.

But that very impossibility made him bold; if this was a dream, he was going to go for broke. Seizing her wrists, he slammed her against the bricks and held her there. With his knee he pushed her legs apart, leaving her splayed and quivering on her stiletto heels. Reaching down, he gripped hold of her upper thigh and ran his thumb over the parting. The heat of her shocked him, already perceptible through her shorts.

She broke their lip lock and nuzzled her face into his neck. "It takes a minute," she breathed, and the tiny part of his brain that attended to such things said challenge accepted. Pausing only to lick down his fingers, he pushed aside the crotch of her hot pants and parted the silky curls to catch the nubbin beneath them. He worked gently at first, barely making contact, getting the lay of the land. But soon little mewling noises were escaping her painted lips, and every one sent a charge through him that made his movements more sure. Leaning his body into hers, his thumb played fast and light over her button until her knees were knocking against him.

Roy kept up the speed determinedly, relishing her every tremble and gasp, getting so into the rhythm of it he lost track of how long it took. Then suddenly she went very still, and for a second he panicked, thinking he'd made a mistake, but her nails raked over him with a breathless strangled cry that proved he'd fucked things up but right.

She was still for a moment but for the heaving of her chest, then the hands that were clutching at him started moving. She undid his belt with one hand while the claws on the other dug into his hip. In a moment she had his fly down, feeling around the waist of his shorts. He was already stiffer than a whiskey straight up, and even just the contact with enough to tear a hoarse gasp from his throat. She didn't waste time getting to know him; he was uncut, which occasionally had given girls pause, but Violet didn't miss a beat. She seized him firmly and went to town, in long hard strokes that ran all the way through him. A less talented woman couldn't have gone in so rough, but she worked those long fingers with such agility that even the occasional rake of her nails was an electric thrill.

On fire and keen to do something about it, Roy hooked his fingers into her waistband and yanked. Soon the shorts were around her ankles and she stepped out of them one stiletto at a time. Gripping his erection in one hand while clinging to his shoulder for dear life, she hiked one leg and nudged him into that incredible heat. By pure instinct he bucked against her, but she was taller than him, so even though the angle worked, it made it hard to thrust. So she guided him, inch by inch inside her, all the while never breaking eye contact through a riot of false lashes, and once she had him all she came down to meet him, hooking her leg and giving him most of her weight.

There it was. There it was. For a moment he was still, taking it in it, taking her in, the feel of that custom-made, designed-to-specs pussy sliding down his cock. And then, buried to the hilt in her, Roy went to work.

Bracing his hands against the wall, he rocked and thrust as she rolled to meet him, arms around his neck, drawing him deeper with every plunge of her hips. He had thought to start slowly, but the sensation of her grip around him, grinding hard against him, made him wild. He'd spent nights imagining what she felt like on the inside, and after all that, it turned out she was right and the answer was perfect, fucking perfect.

Roy drove into her again and again, racing, hurtling towards the peak. Violet's leg crushed around him, holding him to her as she writhed and mewled into his neck. Her thrashing grew more and more intense until at last she cried out, and he could feel her spasm around him, a throbbing tension that made her clamp down like a vice. That unbearable tightness, that sudden scream, the jolt that ran all the way through her, it was too much for him. It all came out of him, all of it, the jizz and the frustration and the weeks of lustful hunger. He burst into her, babbling like a madman with his face pressed into her hair.

"Christ, Jesus Christ, Violet, yes, yes, fuck, yes, Violet, it's you, Violet, it's you!"

The moment was endless and yet passed too soon, before the two came down from the rush of it all. Her knees buckled and she sagged against him, a tangle of gangly limbs. He held to her hard, pushing her to the wall to help keep them both upright. They stayed there a long while, pressed against each other, both heaving to catch their breath.

But the moment was cut short when he could feel a sudden tension run through her, almost like a panic. Her whole body shivered, practically convulsed, and in his weakened state he couldn't help but stumble back. Once she was free, she held still for a second, then her legs flexed into frantic action.

"What-- are you--? Violet?" he managed between gasps, but she did not turn back, would not even look at him. Instead she snatched up her shorts and scrambled back into them, nearly stabbing a hole when they caught on her stiletto. Once she was dressed, she turned, steadying herself on the bricks, and threw open the back door from which they'd come.

He fumbled to get his belt and zipper back together. "Violet, wait." He struggled to his feet to go after her, but the door swung shut, and she was already gone.


End file.
